“It’s easy to believe that having
a child is as simple as growing tomatoes: you do the right couple things, you
take your prenatals and avoid caffeine and nitrates, and the universe hands you
a perfect life, right on schedule. But if you've ever tried to grow anything –
a tomato plant, a baby, anything – you know it’s more mysterious and more
treacherous than that. It turns out that conceiving and carrying a healthy baby
is just exactly like a lot of other parts of life: way more out of our control
than we prefer to believe. There’s a mystery we tend not to acknowledge until
certainty has been ripped out of our clutching hands. And only when certainty
is gone do we allow ourselves to bend and open to that terrifying mystery, dark
and incomprehensible.”
Excerpt from “Heartbeat” from Bittersweet,
by Shauna Niequist
I.
When Mike and I first started
trying to have a baby, we were blissfully, hopelessly, prematurely excited. We talked
about our future-babies, researched the best strollers, planned our nursery and
picked baby names. I stopped drinking caffeine, began taking prenatal vitamins
and bought the entire suite of “What to Expect” books.
I was delirious with baby fever.
I was so sure I would be able to
get pregnant without much difficulty – never
mind that I had had open-heart surgery to repair a congenital heart defect; never mind that I had Graves Disease
(a.k.a. hyperthyroidism). Those were minor details.
Even still, doctors ran tests on
my “problem areas” to make sure everything was in working order. I passed. They
shook my hand and said, “Go forth and procreate!”
(Actually they said, “Have lots
of intercourse!”, but I can’t type that without laughing.)
We entered into a cycle of trying
and failing, high on the idea that parenthood was tantalizingly close. I spent
a small fortune on name-brand
pregnancy tests. I justified the splurge, reassuring myself that I wouldn't have to use that many. I was going to get pregnant very soon.
But after several months of
trying and boxes of wasted pregnancy tests, I quietly stockpiled generic
pregnancy tests, purchasing them en masse when they were on sale. I did not
acknowledge the fact that I might need them all. I told myself I was being frugal.
After my sister-in-law announced
her pregnancy, the seeds of doubt I’d tried to ignore sprouted into hearty,
aggressive weeds.
I knew there was something wrong
with me.
II.
If you’re trying to conceive your first child and are
relatively healthy, most doctors discourage you from seeking consultation until you've tried for a year. When I told my doctor’s staff about my wildly
irregular periods, they scheduled an appointment for me to see him.
I’d only been trying for six months.
During my first appointment, I answered my doctor’s
questions as honestly as possible: my periods were sporadic; my diet was
indulgent; I exercised by walking Crosby; my stress levels were under control -
now. I didn't know if my season of binge eating and weeping
was relevant, but I mentioned it casually, like I was trying to convince us
both that it was no big deal.
My doctor frowned. “That’s a pretty significant event. It
was probably very stressful.”
I shook my head, the beginning of a rebuttal on my lips,
when he interrupted me.
“My wife and I
went through the same thing. Her sister got pregnant several times while we
were trying. It was very difficult for us even though we were happy for her. We
tried with IVF for four years before we had our daughter.”
Well then. Never
mind.
He ordered tests and said he would see me soon.
I was cautiously optimistic during my follow-up
appointment. I was going to get some answers, and I wouldn't have to wear a paper gown or put my feet in stirrups to get them. Hallelujah - God's goodness abounds.
But the answers weren't what I expected.
“You have PCOS - polycystic ovarian syndrome.”
I stared at him hoping I’d misheard.
“It encompasses a wide range of symptoms and side
effects, one of which is infertility. Essentially your hormones are imbalanced
so you’re not ovulating. Let’s get you on drugs to help you do that.”
He was rather nonchalant about it, like he was a close
friend telling me I had broccoli in my teeth. I willed myself not to cry. I
remember him saying, “It’s very common” and “Don’t worry – we’ll get you
pregnant.” He prescribed Metformin and ordered monthly blood tests.
I didn't cry till I got home.
I thought this was bad news, but that’s because I had no
idea that more was still coming.
Later, after months of failed attempts, I would cry again
after my doctor, puzzled over my abnormal blood work, told me to stop trying to
conceive until I saw a hematologist and geneticist.
I would cry again after the hematologist confirmed that I
have hemoglobin e, a common mutation that leads to thalassemia and sickle cell
disease, among other blood conditions.
I would cry after he told me that there was a chance - if
Mike had any blood abnormalities – our
children could be born with serious blood disorders ranging from mild to
life-threatening. He implied that death was a possibility, and that we should
seek genetic counseling to “consider our options”.
I would cry after my doctor told me, after months of
taking the maximum allowable dose of fertility drugs, that I would have to see an infertility
specialist.
Had I known that I was going to have more reasons to cry,
I would've held off till I received the very last of it. I would've stored it
up and had one epic cry. And then,
after there wasn't a drop of moisture left in my body, I would've poured myself
a glass of wine and eaten a pie. Because what else can you do?
III.
The diagnosis itself wasn't bad. Several people attempted to reassure me by saying things like, “I know people with
PCOS, and they have tons of kids” or “At least you know, and knowing is half
the battle”. Thanks, G.I. Joe.
What hurt the most were the unspoken implications that
came with it.
Having PCOS meant parenthood was not something I could
plan or decide, that the life I’d imagined for us might never be realized.
I realize now I was too confident, that I somehow believed God would absolutely give me what I wanted based on years of responsible decision-making and really good behavior. Okay mostly good behavior. I mean, if he would give babies out in droves to the stars of Teen Mom, surely there was one for me?
(Yes, I know I was being totally judgy, and that my view of God as a cosmic judge/vending machine/genie is completely inaccurate. But that's just where I was.)
It would take me a few years to get comfortable with the
idea that my life could look different, and that different could be good. But I
was far from that place when I received my diagnosis. I was freaking out. I was
trying to do everything in my power to hold onto the dream life that involved
kids at that moment in time.
After hearing my diagnosis, I did what most people would've done: I Googled it. If I educate myself, I can come up with a plan (said Lina when she still thought she had control over her life).
That was a mistake.
I was bombarded with too
much information, and all of it scared me. I saw the same symptoms and side
effects on every site: infertility, depression, excessive weight gain,
hirsutism.
I shut down.
I stopped researching.
I stopped reading the “What to Expect” books.
I stopped taking pregnancy tests.
I stopped thinking about my future-babies.
I fluctuated in and out of mild and deep depression. I
denied it, told myself and everyone who asked that I was fine, that I was just
really, really sad.
It was a lie I desperately wanted to believe.
I was not fine. My depression strangled my ovaries. I did
not ovulate for two years. I thought I was barren, and nothing anyone said –
nothing I ate/bought/drank/read/heard – made me feel any better.
Three months ago, my doctor’s office called to tell me I
ovulated. I have since ovulated each month, which is, to me, a modern day
miracle.
There’s a chance I could
get pregnant. There are so many other factors to consider, and even though my
ovaries are finally working, there’s no guarantee I could get pregnant. I’m
forcing myself to focus on the good news, to revel in this miracle, this
tiny victory. For now. We are celebrating, quietly, awaiting the next step,
which is to meet with the infertility specialist. We are nervous and cautiously excited. This will be the first appointment we have to attend
together. We don’t know what we’ll learn, but for the first time in years, we
are daring to hope.
Maybe someday, this picture will be of Mike holding one of our sweet babies.
Dreaming again.
